A Tapestry of Murders

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Even death cannot stop her... Paul Doherty relates the Man of Law's tale in A Tapestry of Murders - a tale of mystery and murder as he goes on pilgrimage from London to Canterbury. Perfect for fans of Ellis Peters and Susanna Gregory. Chaucer's pilgrims, quarrelling amongst themselves, are now in open countryside enjoying the fresh spring weather as they progress slowly towards Canterbury. A motley collection of travellers, they each have their dark secrets, hidden passions and complex lives. As they shelter in a tavern from a sudden April shower they choose the Man of Law to narrate the next tale of fear and sinister dealings. In August 1358, the Dowager Queen Isabella, mother of King Edward III, the 'She Wolf of France', who betrayed and destroyed her husband because of her adulterous infatuation for Roger Mortimer, lies dying of the pestilence in the sombre fortress of Castle Rising, where her 'loving' son has kept her incarcerated. According to the Man of Law, Isabella dies and her body is taken along the Mile End Road and laid to rest in Greyfriars next to the mangled remains of her lover, who has paid dearly for his presumption in loving a queen. Nevertheless, as in life so in death Isabella causes intrigue, violence and murder. Nicholas Chirke, an honest young lawyer, is brought in to investigate the strange events following her death - and quickly finds himself at his wits' end trying to resolve the mysteries before a great scandal unfolds. What readers are saying about Canterbury Tales Mysteries: ' Doherty does it again. Another gripping yarn in the Canterbury series. Each in the series has its own twists ' ' You can almost feel yourself there ' ' Spellbinding '

Release date: November 27, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 260

Sample

The rain had fallen all night as clouds, grey and sullen, swept across the fresh green Kentish countryside. The downpour had been so insistent that the pilgrims were confined to a large three-storeyed timber and plaster tavern near the Dominican friary in Dartford. Naturally they were growing restless. Since leaving the Tabard in Southwark they had enjoyed the cool spring breezes, the clear birdsong and the peace of the countryside. It was the morning of the year and blossom hung white and pink on the boughs of trees. Even the poorest labourer sang as he tended his narrow strip of land, looking forward to a rich harvest under a strengthening sun.

Harry the taverner, sitting in the inglenook of the tavern’s great fire hearth, anxiously stared around the assembly of pilgrims. By Satan’s cock, he thought, a motley crew and so ill to please! Take the knight, with his steel-coloured hair and weather-beaten face. His sharp, hooded eyes constantly watched the monk. Harry rubbed his thick lower lip. There was real hostility between these two. The knight and monk apparently knew each other and, whenever the monk came within a yard’s distance of him, Sir Godfrey’s hand would fall to the ivory-hilted dagger stuck in his belt. The knight’s young son, the fresh-faced squire, was equally watchful.

‘Do you think it’s anything to do with the knight’s tale?’ Harry had asked the saintly, but poor, parson.

‘God be my witness, sir!’ The fellow replied. ‘What would a monk know about ancient Thebes? About the glorious King Theseus or cousins such as Arcite and Palemon and their rivalry over the fair Emily?’

‘No, no, I don’t mean that,’ Harry growled, turning his back so the others couldn’t eavesdrop. ‘I mean the other tale the knight told – about the Strigoi, the blood-drinkers, the Shape-shifters who plagued the town of Oxford?’

The poor parson simply crossed himself and walked away. Nevertheless, Harry continued to speculate. The monk, with his berry-brown, glistening face, balding pate and shrewd, merry eyes, seemed an affable fellow; he was a good horseman, skilled in hunting, or so they said. Harry glanced across the tavern to where the monk sat deep in conversation with the snow-bearded franklin. Never once had he seen the monk bless himself or say a prayer or make any reference to the Monseigneur, his noble Saviour, Jesus Christ.

Harry turned away, hawked and spat into the white ash of the fire. Other tensions lurked amongst the pilgrims. Across the taproom, in a far corner, the red-faced, bearded miller had awakened and was fiddling for his bagpipes.

‘Oh, go back to sleep, you drunken sot!’ Harry murmured.

Next to the miller, the cook, his ulcerated leg showing beneath his cloak, was having a violent disagreement with the sour-faced reeve. The pretty but prim-faced prioress kept heaving deep sighs and, with her handsome chantry priest in tow, moved around the taproom from one group of pilgrims to another, as if she found everyone beneath her notice. Harry studied the prioress scornfully; her gown was of the finest material and her shoes, soft-leather buskins, were decorated with imitation pearls. She toyed with that brooch around her neck with its silly phrase Amor vincit omnia and stroked her lapdog, which she fed on the finest bread soaked in milk.

‘A fine lot,’ Harry murmured, rubbing his face in his hands.

‘Sir? Are you well?’

Harry looked up.

‘As fine as can be, Master Chaucer.’

Harry’s eyes became guarded. He liked the fellow but was wary of him – he had heard the man of law remark how influential Chaucer was at court. A diplomat, a poet, a controller of the customs, Chaucer looked merry enough with his sparkling eyes, smiling mouth, rubicund face and neatly clipped moustache and beard. Sharp as a pin, Harry thought. A man of quick eye and ready wit, Chaucer had a penchant for marking people’s foibles with a gentle mockery.

Chaucer sat down on a stool next to the taverner.

‘Not as good an inn as your Tabard,’ he murmured diplomatically.

Harry’s broad face broke into a grin. ‘I thank you, sir. And it’s true!’

His critical gaze swept the taproom.

‘The rushes are clean and the tables are scrubbed, but the pies are stale and too heavily spiced.’ He wrinkled his nose and tapped Chaucer’s knee playfully. ‘Thank God spring is upon us! Soon it will be succulent capon, fresh lamb and pork crisp to the touch, eh?’

‘But not until we’ve been to Canterbury.’

‘Aye,’ Harry breathed, staring down at the white ash in the hearth. ‘I want to go there, climb the steps to the Lady Chapel on my knees and pay homage to the blissful martyr’s bones.’

‘Why?’ Chaucer asked.

Harry grinned but shook his head. ‘Master Chaucer, you know better than that. It’s my secret!’

‘So many secrets,’ the poet whispered, stretching out his legs. ‘Have you observed, Harry, how many of our pilgrims know each other?’

‘Aye, Master Chaucer, I have also noticed how you know many of them.’

Now it was the turn of the courtier poet to smile enigmatically. He pointed to the tavern window, now streaming with raindrops.

‘If it goes on much longer, we’ll need a ship to take us to Canterbury.’

‘If it goes on any longer,’ Harry quipped, ‘we’ll never reach the blessed shrine!’ He gestured towards his fellow pilgrims. ‘They’ll be at each other’s throats before nightfall.’

‘So, what about your wager, Harry?’

The taverner pursed his lips. ‘You think now is the time?’

Chaucer shivered and looked around the darkened taproom, where the rushlights and candles flickered.

‘Aye, now is the time,’ Chaucer said. ‘But not for one of your pleasant tales. For something terrifying – a dark tale of blood and passion.’

‘It’s the good wife of Bath’s turn next,’ Harry said, staring across to where the broad-faced, merry-eyed five-times widow was regaling a bored manciple with stories of her pilgrimages to St James Compostella and to Cologne in Germany.

‘Let’s begin,’ Chaucer murmured.

Harry needed no second bidding. Getting to his feet, he clapped his hands until he had silence.

‘Fellow pilgrims, merry souls all.’ He beamed. ‘We journey to Canterbury to pay homage to the blessed martyr’s bones.’ He pointed to the window. ‘Unless we drown first!’

The pilgrims laughed politely but watched attentively. They regarded Harry as their leader and all tacitly agreed it was time they relieved their boredom.

‘What about a tale?’ Harry asked. He jabbed a stubby finger at the smoke-blackened rafters. ‘Remember, each of us is to tell two such stories – a merry one during the day to entertain and ease our passage. The other at night, dark and sinister, to chill the blood?’

‘But we were only supposed to tell such a story at night,’ the pardoner objected in his high-pitched voice, his bony fingers clawing at his dyed yellow hair.

‘Well, we might as well be in bed now,’ the wife of Bath quipped.

‘We?’ the shipman murmured.

‘That was not an invitation to you.’ The wife of Bath sniffed, shifting her large rump on the stool and flouncing out her petticoats above her laced leather boots.

‘She’s like a drawbridge,’ the summoner murmured, his red, greasy face breaking into a smirk. He scratched his bulbous, wart-covered nose.

‘Who’s a drawbridge?’ the wife of Bath snapped.

‘Some women are,’ the summoner retorted. ‘They go down for any man.’

The wife of Bath stared at him, pop-eyed. Then, with a screech of rage, she flung herself at him, her broad-brimmed hat slipping to the back of her head as she pummelled the laughing summoner with her fists.

Harry the taverner had to intervene. He seized her by her meaty arms, pulled her off the raucous, drunken summoner and sat her gently back on the stool.

‘Just ignore him, mistress,’ he advised.

He paused, caught by the clear gaze of the woman’s ice-blue eyes. Harry blinked. He had always considered the wife of Bath as an over-dressed frump with her costly, purple-embroidered shawl, snow-white wimple and great black hat. A sow in silk he had once concluded: her face was broad, her cheeks ruby red but now, close up, he saw her blue eyes brimming with tears at the muffled sniggering of some of the pilgrims and, suddenly, she seemed innocent and childlike.

Harry grasped her podgy, beringed fingers. ‘In your youth,’ he whispered, ‘you must have been a beautiful woman.’

The wife of Bath sighed; her eyes became guarded and shrewd. ‘In my youth,’ she declared for all to hear, ‘I was a fair fortress. Men sought to storm it but few were allowed within my gates. But once they were’ – her hand went to her lips in a gesture of mock innocence – ‘what a paradise they found.’ She glared at the summoner. ‘As for you, pig-turd, you wouldn’t know a lady if you saw one!’

‘The important word,’ the summoner snapped, ‘is “if”!’

Harry walked over to the man and brought a heavy boot down on his toes, pressing hard enough to make him wince with pain.

‘Shut up!’ the taverner hissed. ‘And, whilst I’m at it, keep your hands away from the franklin’s belt!’

This dispute would have continued further if the miller, now snoring in the corner, cradling his bagpipes as he would a baby, hadn’t given a loud fart and fallen off his stool. The ensuing merriment caused by the miller’s fuddled awakening, followed by more braying noises from his rear end, convulsed the pilgrims either with outright laughter or polite giggles until even the grey-faced knight smiled wryly.

Harry, pleased at the break in tension, clapped his hands again.

‘Remember our wager!’ he bawled. ‘Each pilgrim tells two tales. There’s a prize for each kind. The day is dark and we sit in this tavern and squabble. So, let’s have a tale of foul deeds and night-black hearts.’

‘And who will tell the tale?’ the ploughman asked. ‘We can’t sit here quarrelling all the time!’

‘I will sing you a dark song.’ The man of law spoke up from where he sat quietly in the corner.

All the pilgrims looked at him. The man of law got to his feet, hitching about his shoulders his costly, striped gown fringed with lambswool, his thumbs tucked into the leather belt round his slim waist. Harry studied him. A quiet fellow, he judged. When the lawyer spoke his tone was often cynical and, when asked about the law, he could quote it freely from the first statutes of King Henry on to the most recent Acts of Parliament. Harry pursed his lips.

‘It’s best if I do,’ the lawyer continued, his dark, sardonic face relieved by a smile. ‘Otherwise we’ll sit debating until the Second Coming!’

Harry caught the sombre-eyed lawyer’s gaze and realized that the man of law kept glancing at the prioress, who was sitting primly, feeding costly milk sops to her lapdog. A strange group, the landlord mused. The prioress, Dame Eglantine, looked up, blushed and bowed her head as if she was embarrassed by the man of law’s declaration. Others, too, became slightly agitated, their quick movements not missed by the sharp-eyed Harry. The manciple half-rose to his feet, his jaw slack with surprise, until he remembered himself and sat down. The summoner put his heavy tankard down, looking now as drunk as he pretended to be.

‘The man of law is right.’ The knight spoke up. ‘Let us have his tale now.’

There was a general murmur of approbation and Harry waved the man of law to a heavy, carved chair at the head of the taproom table.

‘Be our guest, master lawyer. Tell us a tale of dark deeds and murderous hearts.’

The man of law smiled thinly. Hitching his belt round his waist, he took his seat and the goblet of wine Harry placed in front of him.

‘Oh, I will,’ he declared. ‘I’ll tell you a tale of treacherous intrigue, the subtlety of princes and the lust for power. I’ll tell of bloody deeds carried out in the dark of night, though not far from the eye of God!’

The man of law broke off his tale. The wife of Bath clapped her hands.

‘Your story is about Isabella,’ she crowed. ‘That Jezebel, the She-Wolf of France!’

‘An evil woman,’ the physician contributed. ‘In her youth they say she was beautiful. She married King Edward, the grandfather of our present king, but brought him as low as Hell!’

‘Played the two-backed beast she did!’ the pardoner screeched, flicking his yellow hair back. ‘Edward had a lover, Hugh de Spencer, so Isabella had her paramour, Roger Mortimer.’ He stretched his neck like an old hen and stared around the assembled company. ‘Oh, yes, I know my history. Isabella met Mortimer in the Tower and they became paramours. They fled to France and returned with an army.’

‘I was a boy in London at the time,’ the reeve spoke up, eager to share his knowledge. ‘The king fled west with de Spencer as the mob rose against him. I was in the markets along Cheapside. They trapped some of de Spencer’s ministers in St Paul’s graveyard. Tore them from their horses and hacked them to death, leaving their poor corpses gutted and bleeding like slabs of meat on a butcher’s stall!’

‘I was only a chit of a girl,’ the wife of Bath said, ‘but I remember the excitement well. They executed de Spencer you know, at Hereford. A kinsman of mine saw him die. They built a special scaffold.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Hanged and drawn he was.’ She made a chopping movement with her hand. ‘His balls cut off like that!’

‘And what happened to her husband, the king?’ the ploughman asked.

‘He was taken to Berkeley Castle,’ the wife of Bath answered, ‘and thrown into a deep pit with the rotting corpses of animals. He was meant to die there...’

‘But?’

The wife of Bath adjusted her wimple. She leaned forward, pleased to have everybody’s attention.

‘One night murderers entered the king’s cell. They threw the unfortunate prince to the ground, placed a table on his back and thrust a red-hot poker up into his innards, so the corpse would show no mark. My kinsman,’ she added proudly, ‘saw his corpse in its coffin before it was buried in Gloucester abbey church.’

‘What happened to Isabella?’ the ploughman asked.

‘For three more years she and Mortimer ruled the kingdom,’ the wife of Bath said, ‘with her son, our noble Edward, as their puppet. Then Edward asserted himself. One night he arrested Mortimer at Nottingham Castle and sent him to be hanged at Tyburn for the murder of his father.’

‘And Isabella?’

‘She was banished to Castle Rising until her death.’

The knight spoke up. ‘I was a member of the guard of honour at her funeral.’ He narrowed his eyes and gazed at the man of law. ‘On the day the queen was buried, there was some excitement was there not?’

The man of law was staring across the tavern at the prioress. ‘Oh, there was excitement,’ he replied at last, shaking himself from his reverie. ‘But listen awhile, for the old queen’s burial brought about more bloody murders.’

About the middle of a Thursday afternoon, two men, John Waters, a blacksmith, and William Bramwell, a baker, were crossing the desolate waste at the foot of Primrose Hill, going towards the White House tavern near St John’s Wood. The day was both dark and cold and they were looking forward to hot spiced food and a jack of ale. They could already see the lights of the tavern faintly in the distance when Bramwell suddenly stopped. He grasped his companion’s arm and pointed towards a large reed-filled pond with two black, stark trees above it. Not far from the pond ran a deep ditch shrouded with thickets and brambles and, amongst these, on the rim of the ditch, they glimpsed in the fading light a long, silver-topped cane, a pair of fringed gloves and an empty sword scabbard. Both men hurried across. Bramwell bent over to pick the gloves up and, in doing so, noticed something lying in the ditch.

‘Good Lord!’ he cried, stepping back. ‘There’s a dead man here!’

They pulled the brambles back to reveal, lying face down in the bottom of the ditch, the corpse of a tall, lean man clothed in black. Their terror increased when they saw six inches of a sword point protruding from the man’s back just under the right shoulder blade. They looked at each other and stared down. The body lay in a crooked position, not flat against the bottom of the ditch but turned slightly towards the left bank. One arm, the left, was doubled back under the head, the other flung out. At first sight it might even seem that the man was only sleeping. Bramwell crouched closer and stared at the white face twisted in the crook of the arm. He fought back the bile which rose in his throat as he glimpsed the bluish, bloated skin and blood-filled eyes.

‘Who is it?’ Waters whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ Bramwell replied. ‘But he’s well dressed and he lies on his own sword. Is it suicide or murder?’ He peered more closely. Then, ‘I think I do know him,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘God save us, it’s the judge, it’s Lord Stephen Berisford!’

In the Locked Heart tavern off Pig Alley near Chick Lane, Wormwood, a professional assassin sat quietly in a noisome corner of the taproom where the floor was soaked in rat urine. A beggar, filthy-skinned and clothed in rags, came up to the table, fawning and bowing. Wormwood kicked out and the creature scuttled away, losing himself at the end of the long, dark taproom. Surely, Wormwood thought, he was safe here? Surely the Guardian of the Gates would keep his bargain? It was past nine in the evening and the tavern was still thronged with drinkers. The din was horrid. Wormwood stared through the fug. Most of the noise was coming from another, lower, chamber down some stairs at the far end. Wormwood ordered more ale but when it came he sent it back, complaining that it was cloudy, and demanded instead a cup of sack. Then he left his seat and walked the length of the taproom and down the stairs into the dirty, thronged cockpit. A huge crowd was gathered there. Lords, gallants, clerks and apprentices rubbed shoulders with every type of villain, both high- and base-born, the city could muster. They all stood around the sawdust pit shouting wagers and taking bets. In the pit itself two huge cocks, their black silk plumage dusty and blood-stained, fought like savage gladiators. They circled and clawed each other until one collapsed in the dust, a pile of blood-soaked feathers, whilst its conqueror, covered in gore, stretched its neck out and crowed in triumph.

Wormwood felt himself shiver and looked around. When, he thought, would the messenger come? A wench, lush and comely, her lustrous hair falling down to her white, bare shoulders, was studying him. The black paint around her eyes contrasted sharply with the ivory paleness of her skin. S. . .